Joslyn
by InChrist-Billios
Summary: A look at redemption, through the guise of a fairy tale.


**Hello all! This is my first fanfiction fic in a while, and I feel a bit rusty. --scary face-- This is a story written for **EVA**, actually, as part of the "ficathon" on the ACA Forum I'm a part of (there's a link on my home page, if you wanted to check it out, which I _would_ suggest, of course. --nudge nudge--). Enjoy, **EVA**!**

**Disclaimer: The idea belongs to **EVA**. Inspiration belongs to God.**

**Warning The First: Rated for some stronger language (not swearing, but perhaps not younger-child appropriate) and adult content.**

**Warning The Second: It's longish. And a bit intense.**

**--  
**

You open your eyes and see before you a magnificent four-poster bed, with a sleep-tossed figure lying upon it in sweet repose. Her chest rises and falls in the steady breathing of sleep, and her dark hair falls across her face, partially obscuring it from view. You watch as she moves in her sleep, pushing the hair off her face with a slender white hand. Her face is a mountain in the winter, dangerous and painfully beautiful. Yet, the prone figure seems fully unaware of her own threat as she sleeps, careless and picturesque.

You wander from the room, down wood-paneled halls and polished mahogany stairs. There is no one in the hall, and no one passes you on the stairs. Moonlight pools in the generous windows. You drift about for hours, never passing the same hall twice, admiring the art and architecture of the palace. You notice that the palace grows warmer.

Lions of flame lick the walls tenderly, ravenously, preparing to consume their prey. People appear in the halls, choking and running and screaming. They brush past you without seeing you, and you follow them out.

Paintings are shredded by monkeys, golden trinkets turned to dripping amber by raging waterfalls, and floors infested by curling snakes; plants are converted to blazing torches, and stars fall from the sky. You keep close to a glowing woman, but pass her when she falls to the snakes, struck by a star. You pass through a doorway draped in gold and join the throngs on the pebbled drive in front of the palace. You turn around to look and see the lions leaping from turret to turret, pounding holes in the roof. Monkeys swing in and out of windows, grabbing draperies and hurling pieces of debris; snakes curl around columns and banisters, twisting and crushing them; waterfalls cascade from one level to the next; stars fly up and out, lighting on trees and bushes in the garden.

People come through the golden door, but eventually there are no more. Adults and children are crying. The building collapses. The palace is the sun; the night has become dawn.

--

You wake and realize that it was a dream, and you're relieved. Then, you open your eyes and realize it was not _all_ a dream. Smoke and fire is blowing from the monstrous, charred heap where your home used to stand. Your magnificent nightgown is singed and burnt in places. Your hair smells of smoke instead of daffodils. You learn that none of your family escaped; you, the heiress of Bervea, will be moving to Lintle to stay with your fiance's family until the long-anticipated wedding which will not only unite you with your love, but also join the two great countries.

You faint.

When you wake again, you're in a carriage. You're told that you will be staying with your aunt and uncle, and the butler doesn't listen when you insist to live with Gilton's family instead. He is tired and sooty and worn; you realize he probably lost friends or family in the fire, and you stop arguing. Your aunt and uncle have first right to the throne before you come of age in ten months, and they obviously took power before you could escape to Lintle. You cry, and the butler looks sorry. He hands you a handkerchief, and you go back to sleep.

--

You wake up in an unfamiliar house, and panic grips you for moment before you remember the lions and snakes and monkeys and waterfalls and stars. A voice that isn't your mother's tries to calm you down, but that only makes you cry harder. Droplets of glowing amber melt down your cheeks; the crackling roars of lions fills your thoughts.

You're like this for weeks, your aunt's maid says, before you recover from the fire in your body – a fever that gripped your mind and flesh. Then your aunt and uncle speak to you, telling you what has become of your future. They say you are ill in mind, that the physician has declared you unfit to rule. They will be crowned the king and queen in a week's time, and you will forever be the sad, addled princess who was once to marry Prince Gilton and be queen of all Lintle and Bervea.

That's when you decide to run away.

--

There is a letter on your desk, from Gilton. He says he has heard about the fire, and he will find a way to come see you in Shaa. He says to stay with your aunt and uncle, that you will be safe there. He hasn't heard that you're crazy. The thought that the whole country will think you mad is humiliating – unbearable. Gilton will believe them when they tell him is more than you can stand.

You steal clothes from the maid and run away, unable to face the future.

--

Once you start stealing, it isn't hard to continue. You're caught a few times, but the lashes teach you to be more careful. You're soon the most adept thief in the city; you begin to spend your money in games of luck. Sometimes you win. Oftentimes you lose. Sometimes, on bad days when there's no money to even buy food, you play without money – with only yourself as collateral. You learn what that means. After a few hungry nights, you begin to realize that there's more money in that than either stealing or luck, and if you're smooth enough, you can steal on top of the wages.

You are smart, and you are compassionate. You help girls like yourself become rich and happy; you manage their business and yours. You strike deals with taverns, cheating the lusty men out of rooms and stages with empty promises. You forget what it is to be a princess. What it is to be a woman is all that matters.

(It's hard to see the slope you're falling down when every tumble seems to be a step forward.)

Oftentimes, you dream of flame, waking up in a sweat and telling yourself it isn't real. You grow used to the heat after a while, though it still brings fear to your heart.

Sometimes you dream of Gilton, but you always laugh that off. Gilton is a pussy; he'd never even kissed you – not once, in all those years. Dreaming of him makes you remember him, fuzzy around the edges. He's tall. His hair is autumn gold. He's soft, not hard like the men here. His words are soft, and his hands are soft. He wouldn't survive a minute in your town. So, you laugh the images away and eat your breakfast, a queen of your own making.

--

And then, one day, a man walks into your tavern. Something about him sets your nerves on edge. He orders dinner and sits in the corner, hat down low over his eyes. You start to leave, strangely uneasy about this man, when Harris asks you to fill in – business is picking up, and one of his girls didn't show. He offers to pay twice your demanded salary, so you put the money and your premonition in the pocket of your apron and get to work. The wages he gives you are more than a full night of your own work, so you tell yourself it's worth it.

You begin to doubt yourself after a few hours. He doesn't leave. You work the section furthest away from him, but his presence haunts you. You can feel his gaze, sticky and taut. It clings to your arms, your neck, your hair, your face, your lips, peeling something away. You being to fumble your mugs and curse the stranger who won't stop looking at you.

You walk out the back door for a breath of air; his gaze lingers on your neck. You lean against the wall and take a steadying breath, angry that this man can rattle you so. You've dealt with men more frightening than he. You've tamed wild animals and provoked mice. _You_ unsettle men. Men do not unsettle you.

When you open your eyes, he's in front of you. His face takes the form of the man from that first hungry night, but you don't look away. You refuse to be intimidated. You see that it's not the same man, but it is a face you know. It's a face whose contours are lost in your mind, and only a gut feeling of terror is there to tell you who it is.

"Joslyn," he says, his voice low and painful.

The sound of it slices through to the deepest part of your heart. Your knees weaken. Fear pumps through your shredded heart. Your entire body is overrun with shaking. You won't let this happen.

You run away, and he doesn't follow.

--

He doesn't follow you, but he doesn't leave. He's there every night. Even when you are on the street, or in a different tavern, he's there. He doesn't approach you again; he watches you. The memory of his voice drives nails into your concentration. Still, ignoring him and continuing on with your life is better than confronting him and telling him to leave. The last thing you want to do is ever go near him again.

He remains for months, a spectre in your life, unnerving and angering you in turn. You wonder when he'll give up and you set your jaw for a grim battle of wills. You picture him the antagonist, the trespasser. You're furious at his intrusion, and whenever he looks at you with his sad eyes, you wish you could cut them out. He has no right to look at you like that.

At the same time, he brings up a feeling of fear – fear that your carefully constructed world is going to come tumbling down around your ears. When he never makes a move to betray you, the fear uneasily subsides for the most part, leaving anger to take its place. You hate him. You imagine ways to kill him, ways to make him _go away._

He doesn't go away.

--

It's been eleven months, three weeks, and a day since he arrived, and that's the day you decide to talk to him. You walk outside the tavern and wait for him to follow, then you approach him. He doesn't take a step toward you, but you can almost hear his grief crying on the wind that sweeps along the street. He takes off his hat. His autumn-gold hair is tossed about on the wind, dirty and matted from days without proper cleaning. Stubble grows on his face. His eyes are the stormy clouds above your head.

"What do you want?" you ask, harshly. The wind tears the words from your mouth.

"You," he says. His voice is undimmed. It threatens to tear you apart. You steady yourself; you want to run, but you have to make him go away.

"You can't have _me,_" you say, wrapping your arms around yourself, both to guard from the chill and still your shaking. "I'm my own person. You have no claim over me."

"We were to be married, Jos," he says, reaching into his jacket and withdrawing a piece of parchment.

The wind tries to find a hold on it, to rip it from his hands and carry it away. You pray that it does. He has the marriage contract. If he takes you, you'll have to marry him. Before you have time to think of how to grab it from his hands, he folds it and puts it back inside his coat.

"I won't force you to come with me," Gilton says, looking at you; twin storms hold your eyes with searing intensity. "But I'm asking you to."

"Why?" you ask. The wind is clawing at your hair.

"You know why. If you didn't, you would have asked me earlier," he replies. When you say nothing, he continues, his voice heart-breaking. "I love you, Jos."

"You're an idiot," you spit at him.

The wind howls. He says nothing.

"I don't want your love," you say finally. "Leave me alone."

"I will never leave you," Gilton says, his voice breaking. The wind whips a tear from his cheek and chases it down the road.

You turn around and walk inside, angry, but trembling.

--

Time passes. Gilton doesn't leave. You're afraid at first that he'll bring in the royal guard and force you to go with him, but weeks go by, and nothing happens to arouse suspicion. Life goes back to how it was, with him always following. You almost forget about him for days at a time, but then he'll catch your eyes and anger flares up again.

At the same time, you begin to become dissatisfied with your life. Money loses its luster. Each conquest seems more pitiful than the last. Dreams of memories begin to replace dreams of victory. Slowly, life becomes pallid and dry. Business slows. The only remaining customers are dark, leering, and you begin to fear for your life. You dream of fire every night.

You hate Gilton even more, blaming him for destroying your life. If he'd never have come, you'd be happy. None of this would have happened.

(But you don't believe that.)

And now it seems that he's your only escape.

(But you don't want to believe that.)

--

Eighteen months, one week, and six days after he arrives, you decide to speak with him again. You walk out of the tavern and wait, then approach him – just like the last time. Again, he removes his hat. He's given up shaving, and his stubble has grown into a beard. His hair is too long. He looks too old.

"If I go with you, I'll be taken care of," you say, guarded.

"Yes, if you become my wife," he says, voice somber; he knows why you made this decision.

"I'll go," you say.

He walks toward you, the warm sun reflecting in his storms, lightening the grey. You pull your long sleeves to your hands, but he gently pushes them back, lifting your arm from your side and kissing the angry bruises.

"You didn't have to wait until you were hurt," he whispers into the skin. "I've been here all along."

You don't say anything. Your heart is in pieces.

--

You become Gilton's wife eight days later. His family welcomes you joyously; they throw a week of balls and feasts in your honor. The countries celebrate with abandon. Even your aunt and uncle kiss your face and express their delight that you've returned. Most people look at you and whisper; they know where you've been, what you've been doing. Their smiles are fake; they laugh at you behind their hands. What could you know of being a princess anymore? Why didn't Gilton find a worthier bride? What are you doing here?

You cry yourself to sleep every night. You wish for your own world back, the one you can control. You hate Gilton's control over you, how he dictates your world. He protects you, but you feel stifled. He provides for you, but you feel force-fed and caged. He loves you, but you're drowning.

That's when you decide to run away.

--

You hate everything. Nothing is right. Nowhere is home. You head for Shaa, but it's more than three days' traveling on foot. You find a man willing to share his cart, his room and his food for your offered exchange. He takes you closer to Shaa. Then you find another man. He takes you closer. You find another, and, though your heart thuds with fear – something about him makes your time-hardened skin crawl, but you blame it on your recent affluence – you climb into his cart.

He's rough. He takes your exchange, but then his hands find your neck. You kick and punch and try to wrench away, but he's too strong. Blackness comes in on your vision – blackness and flame. A bead of molten amber drops from your eye. You hear the roaring lions in your ears, the screaming monkeys, the hissing snakes, the pounding waterfall. You close your eyes; you see stars of fire, and you give up. There's nothing you can do.

_Save me, Gilton!_

--

The blackness vanishes without warning, leaving you a spinning vision of the wood. You fall, barely remembering to catch yourself before you slam your face into the ground. It takes another heartbeat to remember to breathe; you suck air in a panic, choking on saliva and your own tongue. You hear sounds of a struggle and look up, trying to focus on the blurred figures in front of you.

One of them is the man who tried to kill you – large, hulking, blonde-haired and blue eyed. The other is Gilton – smaller, softer, but with a streak of towering rage you've never seen before. They fight with daggers in hand, though neither are using them yet. Your vision steadies as your breath does, but you remain frozen on the ground, struck by the vision of the fighting men. Gilton is battling the man with fury, gaining the upper hand, though the other man is easily the stronger and more advantaged of the pair.

Soon, Gilton presses his knee to the man's chest, his dagger at the man's throat.

"Go away," Gilton growls, "and never let me see you near my wife again."

"She's a whore," the man sneers.

Gilton's knife presses harder into the man's neck, drawing blood.

"Do you understand me?" Gilton says, voice frighteningly steady, though his eyes are hurricanes.

"Yes," the man says, as if by great effort.

Only then does Gilton allow him to his feet. He watches the man walk back to his cart and drive away. When the dust from the cart is out of sight, he turns to you. You don't see his face; you've turned your eyes to the ground.

You feel raw, undone, broken. For the first time in a long time, you feel everything. Hideous shame bubbles up inside of you, breaking through the wall of pride, and you begin to choke on your wracking sobs as every emotion sweeps across your heart. Fear. Brokenness. Vulnerability. Guilt. Insecurity. Humiliation. Terror.

You're face-down in front of the person who loved you through everything. You grovel before the person you betrayed, multiple times. You're prostrate before your savior. Left quivering in what remains of your shattered heart is only one emotion: Repentance.

"I'm sorry," you whisper into the dirt. "I'm so, so sorry."

All this time, he's neither moved toward you nor away from you. You don't look up to see his face. You have no right to even look at him. You taste the dirt on your lips, and you know there is no pride left in you. You don't deserve his forgiveness; you don't even dare to ask for it.

You hear his feet coming toward you, and you brace yourself for his just wrath. You've earned every kick, every harsh word, every blow that he could ever inflict on you. You wait, tensed, for Gilton to do something. His feet stop in front of your head. You feel the air moving as he crouches down. Then, there is more shuffling; he kneels. He says nothing.

Hands find your face and lift it from the ground. You begin to cry anew, unable to stand the thought of looking into those pure, silver eyes, knowing how angry he must be. You squeeze your eyes shut and wait for his words.

"I forgive you, Jos," he says, his voice shaking. "How could I not forgive you? I love you."

"How can you forgive me?" you cry, trying to rip your face from his hands, but he doesn't let you move from his gaze. "I betrayed you, so many times. I _am_ a whore. How can you love me?"

"I forgive you because I love you," he says, and you can hear the tears in his voice. He begins to wipe at the dirt that clings to your face. "I love you, because you are precious to me. And nothing you can ever do will make me love you any less."

"You waited for me," you say, eyes still closed against his beautiful gaze. "Even though you didn't know if I would ever turn to you."

"I was always there, if you would come to me. It had to be your choice, but I had to be there."

"I don't deserve your love," you weep, feeling his fingers wipe away your tears with the dirt that stains your skin.

"Love has never been a matter of deserving," he murmurs. "Open your eyes, my love."

You can't. He says nothing, thumbs caressing your face, clearing it of any remnant of filth. Minutes pass. Then, you open your eyes.

Gilton's face is inches from yours, radiant, and wet with tears. His eyes are already on yours. Your heart starts to come together again; it fills with love, and redemption.

"I love you," you say to him.

A look of indescribable joy blooms onto his features, and he leans forward, closing the few inches left between you. This is unlike anything you've ever experienced; pure love and perfect peace fill your heart to overflowing, a river in your soul. A spring of joy bubbles in your toes and reaches up to every nook of your body, flowing streams of ethereal comfort and overwhelming the hissing fire of nightmares. Trust and hope blossom in the new-tilled, new-watered earth of your heart, two separate entities that now exist as one. You've now received true love's kiss: that of the forgiven to the forgiver, the helpless to the savior, the beastly to the beautiful.

You will never be the same.


End file.
